


the delicate thing you prize so much

by mousecookie



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-compliant through c2e113, Dierta Thelyss's A+ Parenting, Essek Thelyss-centric, Kryn cultural taboos, Loneliness, Lucid Dreaming, M/M, Pining, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:55:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27166216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mousecookie/pseuds/mousecookie
Summary: The view from the edge of the bluff is beautiful.  Essek stands on the brink and watches in silence for long minutes.“Ah, here you are.”A familiar voice again, and a flash of red hair in the corner of his eye.Essek sighs in irritation. “Not now, Widogast.”Caleb laughs. “You are prickly in your dreams, Thelyss.”
Relationships: Essek Thelyss/Caleb Widogast, The Mighty Nein & Essek Thelyss
Comments: 46
Kudos: 305





	the delicate thing you prize so much

**Author's Note:**

> Buckle up folks, it's time for some wizard angst (with a happy ending! Very important). This fic was inspired by [this tumblr post](https://ariadne-mouse.tumblr.com/post/631109661638197248), and the recollection that Essek once told Jester that he was "trying to sleep" when she cast a Sending to him late at night.
> 
> Mild EGTW spoilers regarding the Bright Queen and consecution.

The Kryn nobility do not sleep. They could, if they wanted to, but almost universally agree that trancing is a far more efficient, elegant, and refined method of resting the body and mind. Trancing honors their elven heritage and carries no risk of unpredictable or confusing dreams. 

The Kryn nobility do not sleep.

...with a notable exception.

Essek of Den Thelyss is no stranger to sleep, or to dreams - in fact, he’s made a regular habit of both for most of his life. 

Predictably, his mother does not approve. _Babies and children sleep because they do not know better,_ _or because they cannot control themselves_ , she says. _You are too old to indulge in such base impulses._

The scolding chafes. It hurts all the more because once upon a time, when Essek was just entering adolescence, Dierta Thelyss had been excited to hear about his dreams - but only because she had hoped the dreams were memories. Memories of people bigger and more important than Essek. Past lives to bring him honor, and prestige, and experience. And sometimes, in Essek’s dreams, he _is_ other people. He dreams he has ten past lives. Twenty. A hundred. He dreams he is a sorcerer, a general, a lore-master, a queen. He dreams that he is anyone, anyone but _just Essek._ Anyone but himself. 

In time, however, it becomes clear that Essek’s dreams are only the imaginings of an active mind.

“Is it such an awful thing?” he asks, when he is still very young. “Is it so bad, that I am only me?”

Dierta sighs. Essek can taste the disappointment from across the room. “I have only ever wanted what is best for you,” she replies. “Someday - lifetimes from now, I suspect - you will understand. For now, we will have to make do.”

His father, too, is unsympathetic, on the rare occasions Essek is able to speak with him. “You must try harder to please her,” his father says. “She is the Umavi, and she deserves your respect and your obedience.”

Essek tries at first, but she is impossible to please. If Dierta is not criticizing Essek’s habit of sleeping, then she is finding fault with his fledgling attempts at court politics, his recitations of the great epics of literature, his table manners, his posture, even his handwriting. Nothing he does is good enough. When Essek is still young and hot-headed, he angrily retorts that no amount of petty noble accomplishments will change the fact that he is still in his first life. For this, he knows, is truly the fault she cannot forgive. 

When Dierta’s servants tell her Essek is rebelliously continuing to sleep instead of trance, she is furious. 

“Dreams are a chaotic disturbance,” she lectures him. “There is no knowing which life produced the dreaming, or what its meaning is.” She lowers her voice to a hiss. “It increases the likelihood of _typhros._ Of _madness._ ”

“I don’t _have_ any past lives,” Essek replies bitterly. “So it shouldn’t matter. I know my dreams are my own.”

“You will stop sleeping,” Dierta orders, ignoring him. “You will trance, as is respectable for someone of your status. You will not keep habits that disturb your elders.”

From then on, if ever Essek slides into slumber under the roof of Den Thelyss, servants quickly wake him. 

Adapting to trance is a hateful task.

* * *

When Verin is born, the Umavi’s attention strays to him only long enough to confirm that he, too, is a new soul. It is with a resigned sort of dismissal that she sends him into military training, and turns her eye back on Essek. 

Essek has done something important, you see: he has discovered that he likes magic, and that he is very, very good at it. So good, that he had begun to surpass other students of the arcane arts - students who can lay claim to two lives, three lives, or more. Dierta takes great satisfaction in pointing out that her new-souled son is out-achieving the consecuted souls of the other dens. 

This does not earn Essek many friends. 

Verin, too, seems to resent that he’s been passed over so quickly in favor of his older brother. Essek himself resents the fact that he’s borne the brunt of the Umavi’s disappointment and ever-higher expectations, while Verin has been able to escape relatively unscathed. This remains a knife between them: the two are united in their dislike of their mother, but little else. 

The death of their father in Bazzoxan drives the rift even wider. 

* * *

Essek’s knowledge of dunamancy flourishes, along with specialties in graviturgy and chronurgy. Learning becomes experimentation, and experimentation becomes invention. 

He uses his rapidly-growing academic acclaim to gain access to the Luxon beacons for research. Those who had been his teachers begin to come to him for advice. Essek pushes them for collaborations, but many of them are too pious to consider experimenting on the Luxon beacons at all. Some even scold him, labeling his passion “blasphemous” and “the excitability of new youth”. Frustrated, Essek eschews their company for books, and voraciously consumes every bit of information the Marble Tomes has to give him about dunamancy. He learns, spins the knowledge into his own designs, and becomes hungry once more. 

It is not enough.

The first night Essek spends in his new tower in the Firmaments - his own home, a reward for achieving the rank of Shadowhand - he sleeps. And he dreams. There are no servants to interrupt him now. 

_He dreams that he flies, up, and up, and up, above the city, until Rosohna looks like a patch of twinkling stars below him. He flies higher, through the clouds, until the real stars surround him. They burn with an intensity that leaves spots in his eyes. It is still, and quiet, and peaceful. And then… he begins to plummet back to earth. Air screams by his ears, loud enough to deafen, cold enough to hurt._

_He wakes just before he hits the ground._

* * *

“You are looking well-rested,” Dierta tells him one evening at court, her eyes suspicious.

“My new position suits me,” Essek replies, offering her the polite, dagger-wrapped-in-silk smile that she taught him herself. 

“I am very pleased to hear it,” Dierta says. "I hope it continues to be so."

Up on the dais, the Bright Queen impatiently beckons Essek to join her as she talks to the Dawn Captain. His smile becomes a little more dagger than silk. “Ah - it appears I am needed. Umavi,” he bows to his mother. “Light be with you.”

He can feel her gaze piercing his back as he floats away.

* * *

Essek’s rising status in the Dynasty remains a point of satisfaction to him, but he is still frustrated with his research in dunamancy. He can’t seem to make new breakthroughs. The priests are still useless. In a kind of manic boredom, he combs through completely unrelated books in the Marble Tomes, looking for inspiration and references he might have missed.

He first learns of “lucid dreaming” in a footnote in an obscure textbook about the astral plane. It is fascinating - the concept that a dreamer can be aware of and control every aspect of what their sleeping mind might conjure. He endeavors to research it as much as he can. Unfortunately, the Marble Tomes contain precious little information about it. Essek scavenges forbidden Empire books, visits low-brow mystics, and even takes an impromptu visit to the Menagerie Coast to seek out literature. 

He attempts to practice it. Initially, gaining consciousness in his dreams is difficult. It takes months before it works, but his first success, he thinks, is very fitting. 

_He is in court at the Lucid Bastion. For some reason, all those present who have past lives are directed to stand at one end of the Bright Queen’s hall. Essek is left standing alone on the other._

_His gut roils with shame. The feeling builds, threatening to consume him. They are all looking at him, except for Dierta, who refuses to meet his eye. He wishes he could disappear._

_...and he can, can't he?_

_**I don’t have to stay here** , he realizes, awareness blooming in his mind. **This isn’t real**. _

_He pictures the red-orange-gold foliage of the Vermaloc, and suddenly he is there among the trees. It is quiet._

_He is alone._

_Perfect._

* * *

Once it clicks, Essek’s lucid dreaming improves rapidly. He finds parallels to dunamancy that further accelerate his abilities; it seems that the stuff of dreams is just one more type of potentiality to manipulate, and Essek excels at it. 

With his newfound skill, he conjures scholars around him in his dreams - the peers and colleagues he has always wished for, who respect him and challenge him, and are willing to push boundaries - and tries to leverage their input to make new breakthroughs in dunamancy. It seems to be working for a short while. But in the end, they are only reflections of himself, and his own knowledge. The intellectual stagnation continues. 

Meanwhile his prestige with the Bright Queen is only growing. He is something of a curiosity to her and the court, he knows - peculiar in his talent and ambition, for one so young. 

“It’s like seeing a newborn babe who can speak in complete sentences,” Verin tells him once. 

This nettles Essek at the time, like Verin no doubt intends, but Essek sits more comfortably with the knowledge that the Bright Queen herself seeks his opinions, trusts him to do her will, and even invites him to sit at her right hand in court. He develops no loyalty to the Dynasty from this - he cannot stomach Leylas Kryn’s religious fervor - but he drinks down the validation like water to parched lips.

When the Bright Queen tells him that she has put forth a nomination for his consecution with Den Thelyss, he is not surprised. An Umavi’s son would have to commit a terrible crime to be denied consecution, after all. His mother will outwardly display her approval - will brag that Essek has earned this honor after barely ninety years where others have required centuries - but he knows that afterwards she will simply push him towards the next goal, and the never-ending impossible task of proving his worth to her.

Essek’s own feelings on consecution are... complicated. He knows it will advance his status and open doors. It would be a part of dunamancy he has never experienced before. But a deep part of Essek recoils at the thought of entering the cycle of rebirth.

 _I should be enough,_ he thinks. 

And, _I don’t need some future idiot inheriting all of my hard work._

And also, _I don’t want to become someone else’s fragmented dream._

He agrees to the ritual anyway. It would be unthinkable not to. 

* * *

As it turns out, the process of being consecuted is unspeakably boring. In addition to the actual spellcasting, there is a great deal of ceremony, and chanting, and preaching, for what feels like hours. Essek endures it all with a cool, practiced smile. In the crescendo of the ritual, a beam of noonday sun spikes down through the city's artificial nightfall and into the cathedral’s circular skylight. 

He is drenched in light and power. 

Afterwards, Essek feels no different. This does not bother him at first. Why should he expect to detect a difference while he is still alive? It’s not until the celebration in his honor that he listens to others mention their own experiences, and begins to worry. 

“It is when one attunes to the Luxon Beacons that the change is most evident,” a high priest - one of his old teachers - tells him, expression rapturous. “In the visualized dunamantic threads of your life, there will be a, a massive _explosion_ of golden fractals, representing the countless choices that might be made by future lives as well as your own. It is exquisite.”

The next time Essek attunes to a beacon, he sees that his realm of potentiality remains silvery and starlit. There is no explosion of golden light. It encompasses only him.

There is only one conclusion: the consecution has failed. 

This knowledge puts a chill in Essek’s bones for a long time. He doesn’t know what it means, he doesn’t understand why it has happened. The saving grace is that the chances are slim that anyone will discover it. Only criminals slated to be executed are tested for consecution, to ensure they are taken beyond the range of the beacons before they die. So long as Essek doesn’t give anyone a reason to test him, no one will. The public knowledge that he underwent the ritual should be convincing enough. He can be an excellent liar when he needs to be.

On several nights, Essek forges his dreamscape into the starry expanse he sees when he attunes to a beacon. With a thought and a wave of his hands, he summons the explosion of golden fractals he imagines he’d see if he was consecuted. It’s beautiful, he supposes. Seeing the image of it there doesn’t make him feel any better. 

And, to make matters worse, the priests remain stalwart in their refusal to conduct further experimentation with the beacons. It does not matter that Essek is officially consecuted. He is still just one young person up against centuries of faith and propriety.

In this way, Essek considers stealing two Luxon beacons to be a justified act of defiance. 

He has done everything he has been asked to do. He has played the right political games. He has gone through the motions of faith, in order to fit in and gain respect. But still he has met walls at every turn. None of these pious idiots will look at these artifacts of immense power and see their _possibilities._ The irony makes Essek want to laugh and scream at the same time.

The heist is too dangerous to plan on any medium that could be misplaced or scryed upon. So, like with many things in his life, Essek turns to his dreams instead. Lucid dreaming - which he has gotten very good at - becomes his assurance of utmost secrecy. He shapes scenarios on the canvas of his sleeping mind, runs trials, solves problems. 

When Essek receives confirmation from the Assembly that the stolen Beacons have been successfully received, he pours himself a lot of good wine, and sleeps without dreams for the first time in a decade.

* * *

The Mighty Nein invade Essek's life just a few years later.

To his surprise and irritation, it isn’t long before they invade his dreams as well. Essek is used to enjoying a certain level of peace while he sleeps. His mastery of lucid dreaming usually enables him to be in near complete control of his surroundings, and to decide whether other beings are present. It is disconcerting to find the ragtag band of mercenaries are as unpredictable and uncontrollable in his dreams as they are in reality. 

_Jester interrupts carefully-constructed thought experiments and offers him dozens and dozens of cupcakes._

_Caduceus grows trees in odd places._

_Beau scatters metal ball bearings that somehow manage to trip him more than once, and her laughter is boisterous but (he imagines) not unkind._

Caleb shows up the most. He moves around the chambers of Essek’s mind almost as comfortably as Essek does himself. He contributes to Essek’s research, appearing out of nowhere to opine in his soft Zemnian accent. His observations are useful, and Essek is often left wondering whether the ideas are truly from his own subconscious. 

_“That is good, ja, but have you considered interactive effects--”_

_“You know, we see a similar effect in transmutation - I have mentioned it before - it may solve--”_

_“Could it be an issue of substituting components? It is how I was able to modify several of my spells--”_

As Essek’s regard grows for the Nein, and for Caleb in particular, they show up more often in his dreams. It is wishful thinking at its finest and Essek has no trouble indulging it as much as he can. 

He’s smug, too, that he’s remembered them all so well that their mirror images in his dreams feel realistic. 

Dream-Caleb’s eyes, for instance, are the perfect accurate shade of day-sky blue. His hair is fiery like the leaves of the Vermaloc at dusk. Sometimes, when Essek is using his dreams to meditate in solitude, he’ll look to the side and see Caleb there sitting next to him, with his familiar curled up in his lap. His company is a balm on the frustrations of Essek’s life. He can’t seem to control when Caleb arrives or leaves - much like the real Caleb - but he becomes accustomed to keeping his eye out for a flash of red hair. 

* * *

(Essek tries to kiss dream-Caleb once. It is a harmless experiment - for what consequences can there be in his own dreamscape? But Caleb melts away into smoke under his lips, and Essek wakes feeling emptier and colder than he has in a long time. He does not try again.)

* * *

The war ends. Essek isn’t caught for his role in it, despite baring his soul to the Mighty Nein on their ship. His stress levels skyrocket: his dreams are of dungeons and torture until he consciously twists the landscape to his will. 

After the peace talks he doesn’t hear from the Nein for several long weeks. At times he is frustrated by it - after all, they made him realize he was lonely, and now they have disappeared. 

Mostly, though, he is restless. 

He has grown too big for his old skin and he doesn’t know what to do about it.

And so he sleeps. He’s willing to face his recent affliction of nightmares, because once he takes control of the dream, he can shape environments that might encourage the Mighty Nein to appear. Sometimes, they do.

_‘Hey Essek,’ Beau greets from across a room, tossing him a delicate potion bottle. ‘Think fast!’_

_“Essek, maybe you’d like to join us for dinner-” says Caduceus, appearing out of nowhere._

_“I am working on an equation, I wonder if you can assist-” says Caleb._

_“I have cupcakes! You want more? I know you liked the one I gave you that one time,” chirps Jester._

Essek sleeps more and more, choosing the company of dreams over his court obligations. When he wakes in the morning, he often slips back to dreams at least once more before he rises. He naps at his desk. Sometimes, a few days pass when he does not leave his home. Time - something he has always felt control over - seems to blur.

Eventually, a message from his mother is delivered by courier.

 _I have learned you have missed some important meetings_ , the note reads. There is nothing further. There doesn’t need to be; Dierta’s disappointment is efficiently self-contained, heavy with both implications and threats, established by many decades of arguments. 

It should worry Essek that his first desire after reading the note is to sleep. To escape. 

It does not worry him. 

He sleeps.

_The dream comes easily until his control this time, without an interlude of nightmares. He pulls familiar features from the ether - a vague sense of directionality, a floor under his feet. Next is a high ceiling. Heavy furniture in deep purple wood. Bit by bit, his Bastion office comes into existence. He sits in an armchair. With a thought, the air around him becomes luminous with stars. When he passes his hands through them, they shimmer and ripple like reflections on a pond._

_“Oh, that is quite pretty,” says a familiar voice._

_Essek knows without looking that if he turns, he will see a flash of red hair._

_“Thank you,” he replies._

_Caleb walks into his field of vision and trails his own hands through the air. His expression brightens when he, too, is able to produce swirling galaxies under his fingertips. “It is remarkable,” he says. “How much control you have here.”_

_Essek watches him impassively. He is sometimes afraid to converse too much outside of spell research, afraid his own consciousness won’t be able to supply the words Caleb might use. The illusion is only perfect due to the fact that Essek does not demand too much._

_“You seem tired,” Caleb says, gaze fixing on Essek._

_Essek should feel smug, like usual, that he has been able to perfectly replicate the color of Caleb’s piercing blue eyes, the color of the daytime sky he sees so infrequently. Instead, he wonders why his subconscious has decided to torture him with it._

_Caleb approaches._

_Essek’s chest grows tight. “You are not real,” he accuses tiredly._

_“Are you so sure?” Caleb asks, tilting his head with a small smile._

_Essek makes a face. “Of course I’m sure.” He puts out his hand._

_Caleb, expression curious, lays his own across it. There is a ghostly rasp of sensation. A flicker of warmth. Nothing more._

_“I cannot conjure this,” Essek sighs. “However much I wish to. I don’t know why.” He gently draws Caleb into his arms. There is the same whisper of tactility, and then Caleb dissolves into nothingness._

_“I told you so,” Essek says to the empty room._

The next day, he returns to his duties as Shadowhand. The right words come out of his mouth at the right times. He stares at reports without seeing them, because if he does, he will see casualty numbers that squeeze his insides in a way they never used to. Conversation flows over him and around him like he is a stone in a river, slowly being worn away.

* * *

For a week he doesn’t sleep at all. Trance is more difficult to resume than he expected, and so he doesn’t do much of that, either. Fatigue sets deeply in his bones. He floats absently through the Bright Queen’s Hall, less like a confident prodigy, and more like a ghost. 

Sleep finally sneaks up on him again on the seventh day. To his mortification, it is at his desk in the Lucid Bastion, with his head pillowed on his arms.

“I beg your p-pardon for the interruption, Shadowhand,” stutters the secretary who has accidentally woken him.

“It is no matter,” Essek says groggily, knowing he looks an undignified mess and definitely has creases pressed into his cheek from his sleeve. “What is your business?” 

By the time the secretary leaves, the back of Essek’s neck is burning hot. Will word reach his mother that the Shadowhand has been napping like a child? Possibly. Probably. Definitely. 

Essek gets nothing done for the rest of the day, and when he reaches home, he sleeps again - more deeply this time.

_In his dreamscape, he conjures a clearing in the Vermaloc. The vibrant colors of the foliage are a welcome change from the somber, stately Lucid Bastion. In a blink he summons a babbling stream, and calls birdsong from the trees. He shears off one side of the clearing with a slash of his hand, turning it into the edge of the bluff, and the stream tumbles over it in a waterfall. The light hangs in a perpetual sunset, the sky beyond the distant mountains streaked with gold, magenta, and dusky purples._

_The view from the edge of the bluff is beautiful. Essek stands on the brink and watches in silence for long minutes._

_“Ah, here you are.”_

_A familiar voice again, and a flash of red hair in the corner of his eye._

_Essek sighs in irritation. “Not now, Widogast.”_

_Caleb laughs. “You are prickly in your dreams, Thelyss.”_

_“It’s not a good time,” Essek snaps._

_“Is everything okay? Are you safe?” Caleb asks, voice drawing closer._

_Essek hisses a shuddering exhale. Like always, Caleb sounds earnestly concerned. No doubt he will offer empathy and compassion that speaks to Essek’s deepest fears and uncertainties and weaknesses, exactly the way Essek longs to hear. His eyes will be the perfect shade of day-sky blue._

_“Essek?” Caleb prompts from right next to him. “What is wrong?”_

_Something in Essek breaks._

_“Why can’t you leave me alone?!” he bursts out, whirling on Caleb with a suddenness that makes the other wizard step back a pace._

_Caleb - with his red hair and those perfect eyes - looks utterly baffled, and a little hurt. “What? I-- what do you mean?”_

_Essek gestures angrily. “I used to be able to rest when I slept, but now you are always appearing and interrupting, all the time! It is a nuisance!” Distantly, he is aware that trees in the Vermaloc around them are dissolving, one by one. The distant horizon begins to blow away like scraps of paper, though the light remains. His control is fraying._

_A wrinkle appears in Caleb’s brow. “I do not think--”_

_“I do not care what you think,” Essek hisses. “And you will not go away, I will make you.”_

_He strides forward and yanks Caleb into a furious kiss, trying to pour as much frustration into it as he can, racing to get some small satisfaction before the specter vanishes into smoke._

_Except… there is no vanishing, and no smoke. Their noses mash together as they collide. Caleb is warm and solid, his lips yielding in his surprise, his unshaven jaw prickly. Essek’s mind feels like it is full of syrup as he reels back, astounded, awash in sensations that are much too real._

_Caleb stares back at him with wide eyes. His kiss-wet mouth is slack with shock._

_“You--” Essek begins, his thoughts bouncing and repelling off each other in chaos. “What--” He grabs Caleb’s arm and squeezes it. It is very corporeal. Then he pokes Caleb hard in the chest. It hurts his finger._

_“Ouch,” Caleb complains, rubbing at his sternum. “Essek, what are you--”_

_“This cannot be happening,” Essek says, distraught. “What fresh hell am I making? Or maybe it is better this way--?”_

_“Essek, I am not--” Caleb begins, before his image flickers, and he swears. “Ah, schieße , I think th--” His words are cut off as he blinks out of existence._

_Essek sinks to the ground. Around him, the last dozen trees of the Vermaloc are dissolving to dust. The burbling stream twists into threads of ether. The ground steadily retreats towards his feet, like a chronurgic reversal of spilled liquid. The weakening sunset subsides to dark nothingness that even his drow eyes cannot penetrate._

_He is alone._

His eyes open in the darkened bedroom of his tower. The hour is early and quiet. When he moves, the rustling of his silken sleeping robe sounds loud by comparison. He stays there, staring at the ceiling, for a long time. 

* * *

The next night, he forces himself to trance to avoid dreaming again. Because if there is one thing Essek Thelyss is good at, it is cowardice and avoidance.

After three hours of shallow, inconsistent trancing, he’s up and attempting to read a treatise on overlap between schema in the nine schools of magic - information he hopes will nudge his dunamantic research into more breakthroughs. But today his focus is scattered. He’s read the same page over, and over, and over, absorbing none of it. He wants to sleep. But if he does, he might encounter Caleb again. A Caleb who he can touch, a Caleb who he has angrily kissed, a Caleb who stuck around afterwards to make Essek to deal with the consequences.

He reads the same page again. There are only a few hours before his first meeting at the Lucid Bastion, where it will be dull, but at least it will be _something_.

Messages from Jester are never when he expects. This one, however, startles him badly. The words are loud, then muffled, disjointed and warped, like a flock of birds released into a storm with only half surviving to reach the other side of it.

**_“--SSEK! --on’t KNOW-if this w--- WORK here --- all the --- (...) --- messing THinGs up! ANYway --leb --- (...) --- you’re oKay! --- back?”_ **

Essek straightens up and his brow furrows. He has never received such a garbled message before. The Sending spell is very reliable, and by its nature perfectly conveys the exact words that leave the sender’s mouth. Distance is not a factor in comprehensibility, unless the spell fails altogether. For the message to be distorted thus… there must be some kind of magical interference.

“I could not hear most of your message,” he replies, slowly and carefully, at odds with the way his heart rate has increased. “But I hope that you are all well.”

There is no subsequent message.

Essek frowns into the middle distance for a solid thirty minutes. He’s very glad the Mighty Nein are reaching out after so long. He’s less pleased he doesn’t know what the message is really about, or why it failed to transmit clearly. A magical anomaly strong enough to interrupt simple, direct magics…

He stands abruptly. It takes less than a minute to float to the top of his tallest tower, where his silvery arcanograph spins and rotates in flux with Exandria’s dozens of magical ley-lines. A simple spell overlays the image of a cartographer’s map onto the device. Where are the greatest concentrations and disturbances? The arcanograph cannot capture everything, but it is useful for revealing where many ley-lines cross at once. 

There are a few places in the world that consistently concentrate large amounts of magic, among them… Eiselcross.

As soon as he ponders it, he can imagine no other alternative.

Of course the Nein are in Eiselcross. It’s where Essek half expected himself to be by now, now that the tensions between the Dynasty and the Empire have resumed simmering instead of boiling. Where else is there such untapped potential for discovering great weapons of war? The Dynasty has certainly been interested in expeditions there. The snowy wasteland would no doubt be a magnet for new troubles between the nations, and where trouble goes, the Mighty Nein are never too far behind.

The only reason Essek can bring himself to scry on them is because he’s so sure it’s not going to work. Shimmering energy trails in the air as he scribes the symbols. His mind’s eye jolts to a blank scene of white that he realizes after a few long seconds is a snowstorm. He catches a peal of Jester’s laughter, quiet, as though carried on the wind. There is a flash of red hair - Caleb? Then a sharp pain lances through Essek’s eyes and deep into his skull, and the vision shatters.

 _“Agh,”_ Essek winces, bracing his hands on the frame of the arcanograph.

It’s as he suspected. The far north.

Well. It is a great relief to have received a message from them, and to glean from his brief scrying that they are not in immediate peril. But it doesn’t make Essek feel less lonely - not when he knows there will be no real contact until they have finished whatever their business is in the north. It could be days, weeks, or even months… if they even decide to contact him again when they _have_ returned. 

If they return at all. 

* * *

Essek staves off sleep for several more days, until fatigue builds up again from his haphazard trancing. He’s reading in his library in a comfortable chair, a quiet, blue-flamed fire emanating warmth from the hearth. A cup of tea sits on the table next to him. He plans to just rest his eyes for a moment, and blink away after-images of the firelight.

He slips under in less than a minute. Unprepared as he is, he falls into a dream he hasn’t consciously authored, and isn’t aware enough to control.

_He has been found out by the Bright Queen. He is running. Running, not moving with magic - because when he tries to teleport, his symbols are gibberish, and when he floats it is like fighting through tar. He is running, running, down a maze of hallways until he reaches a labyrinth of streets: Rosohna, though nothing is where it’s supposed to be. The shouts of the Aurora Watch are close behind him._

_The Mighty Nein appear from the darkness, and Essek feels relief, but it changes to alarm when he sees their faces are anguished and accusing. They, too, give chase - like they had during the party in Nicodranas, except they do not seem to care if their methods are dangerous._

_He runs raggedly down alleyways, trying to hide. An uneven cobblestone catches his foot._

_He falls, hard, and imagines he tastes blood._

_“Essek!”_

_Caleb’s voice._

_Of course, of_ **_course_ ** _his mind knows that Caleb’s anger will punish him the most. He’s pretty sure that’s what all of this is - self punishment - though he hasn’t been able to bring himself to think about it while he’s awake._

_Essek scrambles away until he hits a wall, and he cowers there, arms shielding his face. If Caleb can really touch him in dreams now, he can also hurt him._

_“I am sorry, I am sorry--!” he cries, sick with fear. “Please, I am sorry, I was wrong, I am sorry--”_

_“Essek!!”_

_Hands grab his shoulders, and Essek expects to burn._

_“Essek!!” Caleb repeats sharply, shaking him. “It’s not real! You are dreaming, you can stop it!”_

_That startles Essek into opening his eyes. Caleb’s blue eyes are gilded with moonlight. His expression is imploring, not angry._

_“There you are,” Caleb says with a wavering smile. “I was worried. I have been trying to find you again for days, but you were not there--”_

_“I do not understand,” Essek whispers helplessly. “What is happening?”_

_“You are dreaming, a bad one, it looks like,” Caleb replies. His hands squeeze Essek’s shoulders reassuringly. The touch is heavy and real._

_“I know that much,” Essek retorts, like he hasn’t been running for his life. “But I am supposed to be in control.”_

_Caleb gives him a look. It’s far too understanding for Essek’s liking. “Of course you are. In that case, I hope you do not think we would be like that pack of dogs in real life.” He looks back the way Essek came, where the rest of the dream-conjured Mighty Nein are no doubt still in pursuit._

_“If you were, one could argue I deserve it,” Essek replies quietly. “But it seems I am still very selfish, too... look how frequently I summon a version of you who is kind.” And because he can, he brushes the backs of his fingers over Caleb’s stubbly jaw. The scruff feels real in a way it never has in the past. Essek is transfixed by it._

_Caleb’s expression is doing something complicated, but his next words are interrupted by cries from the Aurora Watch, approaching fast. “He’s over here! I saw him!”_

_Essek flinches instinctively._

_“Come,” Caleb says, pulling Essek to his feet. “You can put a stop to this. There is a technique, called lucid dreaming--”_

_“I am aware,” Essek cuts in, irritated that his own subconscious has to remind him of such. Now that he’s not mindless with terror, he can wield his skills the way he usually does._

_He waves his hand. The dark alleys of Rosohna blur and disappear around them. What remains is an endless expanse of darkness, shot through with hundreds of thousands of stars and the swirls of distant galaxies. There is another pattern layered in, subtly - the silvery threads signifying the pathways of choices, splitting and converging in infinite possibility. It is what Essek sees when he accesses the power of a Luxon beacon. He finds it calming, even after everything that has happened. Even if all he sees are only the pathways of his singular, unconsecuted life. These are all choices_ **_he_ ** _can make._

_Caleb is still with him, floating in space at his side. He marvels at their new surroundings. “Incredible. And much better than a manhunt, ja?”_

_“Yes, much preferable,” Essek replies. He is very tired. How can he be so tired, when he is already asleep?_

_“Good,” Caleb says. Then he rests a hand on Essek’s shoulder once more. “But, Essek, you need to know - besides the last time I saw you, I have never been here before.”_

_Essek shakes his head, disbelieving. Will he be forced to have existential discussions with his conjured dreams, now?_

_“Look--” Caleb says, and fumbles for something around his neck. From within his shirt he produces an ornate, opal-studded amulet. Its shape is the symbol of a crescent moon, strung like a bow. The Moonweaver’s emblem. “I had never dreamwalked before a few days ago, the first time I tried to reach you,” Caleb continues. “The others, they ah, they woke me up in the middle of the night before I could explain it to you properly. If there is someone else in your dreams who looks like me, who has been taunting you, or hurting you, he is not me! I swear it.”_

_“Dreamwalked,” Essek repeats dumbly._

_“Ja, we recently discovered a cache of magical artifacts,” Caleb explains, words picking up speed. “The hoard of a frost dragon. I was, ah, experimenting with this one. I found it easy to walk into the dreams of those close by, but I wanted to see if I could reach someone farther away. I thought you might be entertained.” He looks slightly sheepish. “I did not realize it would upset you so much.”_

_Essek is floored. “Just so that I am understanding this correctly,” he says slowly, “You are trying to tell me that you are not a figment of my sleeping mind, but the real Caleb Widogast, on some kind of… astral journey.”_

_“As far as I am aware, yes,” Caleb nods, rubbing the nape of his neck. “ As I said, I should have explained right away when I arrived the first time, but I was... distracted.” His gaze flicks briefly to Essek’s lips, and Essek recalls in excruciating detail the way he’d pounced upon Caleb in his most recent dream._

_His stomach churns._

_Suddenly he doesn’t know if he wants this Caleb to be real or not._

_“If you are Caleb, and not some figment of my own mind that I am torturing myself with,” Essek replies, feeling increasingly delirious, “Then I am very sorry for my actions during our last meeting. I would not have-- I would not have done what I did, had I known.” He’s half-tempted to summon a black hole to jump into, but if this is really Caleb, the man deserves an apology. He continues, formally, and as earnestly as he is able, “It was reprehensible of me to accost you so crudely as I did.”_

_“You know, I did not mind it so much,” Caleb replies. He is blushing a little, but his gaze is steady._

_“...Ah.” If Essek wasn’t already weightlessly suspended in an infinite dream ether, he might feel the need to sit down._

_“Ah,” Caleb mimics, teasing gently. “I will say, though, that a little warning would not go amiss next time. It’s hard to participate when such a thing happens so suddenly, and ends so quickly.”_

_“Now I know I have dreamed you,” Essek laughs without humor, exhaling shakily. “Caleb would not… you would not…” his face twists miserably. “I do not deserve such affection from you. Him.”_

_“Well, I am him, and I say otherwise,” Caleb replies, crossing his arms. His cheeks are still stained a fetching pink, but he looks very determined. “I think I should get to consult myself on what I think, don’t you? I have had a few days to think about it. Things here in Eiselcross have reminded me that… that time passes quickly, and important things can easily slip through our fingers. I don’t want to allow that to happen with you.”_

_Essek looks away. This is too much._

_Caleb steps closer and speaks again. “You know, I often feel that I do not deserve the friends I have found in the Mighty Nein. But they are my friends, regardless. They have made me better. I flatter myself that I have managed to help some of them in return. And that is what it is about, Essek - whether we can grow into something better, together, despite what we may think we deserve. I didn’t expect this timing on matters between you and I. But I know my own mind.”_

_Essek is taken aback by the veritable wave of emotion coming from Caleb. It’s warm, and tempting, and like so many of Essek’s dreams, it has to be too good to be true._

_“You may know your mind, but... I do not know mine,” Essek replies, as awful as it is to admit it. “I… I have a history of dreaming things which I desire very much. When I was younger, I dreamed I had past lives that would please the Umavi of my den. Later, I dreamed of colleagues to respect and challenge me. Since meeting the Mighty Nein, I have… I have dreamed of you. All of you, but… you are very persistent. I am very good at dream ideation and manipulation as an extension of my considerable skill in dunamancy. I fear that I have fooled myself a little too well, this time.”_

_“Well,” Caleb says, a familiar academic light coming into his eyes. "It will be very easy to confirm that I am real when I see you again in person, but… for the sake of argument in this moment, has anything changed in your recent dreams of me? You seemed surprised by something, last time.”_

_It is easier to have this conversation in a dream, Essek thinks. He can convince himself there is no harm in talking to a figment of his imagination._

_“I have never been able to touch you, nor you me,” Essek explains. “Not in a way that felt… real.”_

_“Did you experiment very much with that, to make sure?” Caleb asks, a corner of his mouth twitching. He looks slightly smug, and Essek hates it._

_“Not in the untoward way you are implying,” Essek says stiffly, embarrassed. “Only… I did try to… to kiss you. Once before. A long time ago. As an experiment, as you say. You vanished into smoke. Anything even remotely, ah… tactile, between us, even as simple as a shaking of hands, is only a pale imitation of what would exist in reality.”_

_“Until last week,” Caleb prompts._

_“...Yes.” Essek confirms, feeling like he’s stepping on the tripwire to a deadly trap._

_“Well, I don’t know about you, but I felt quite a lot of things when you kissed me then. If that is a pale imitation, repeating it while we are awake may knock me out cold.”_

_Yes, Caleb is trying to kill him, it seems. For the second time, Essek seriously considers summoning a black hole to devour them both and end the dream._

_“That is… that is interesting, I suppose,” Essek stutters. “If you are the real Caleb as you say, there may be some interactive effects between the artifact you are using, and the dunamantic methods I apply to better control lucid dreaming. The implications--”_

_“Essek,” Caleb interrupts softly. He is suddenly much closer, and Essek looks away, unable to bear eye contact. A gentle nudge to his chin directs him back. “Good research requires results which can be reliably repeated,” Caleb recites, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “What kind of scholar are you if you have only tested the situation twice, and had different results each time? You cannot conclude anything from that.”_

_“I… cannot argue with that logic,” Essek breathes out a weak laugh._

_“I know,” Caleb tells him with a small smile. “Will you allow me to provide you with more data, so that your hypothesis about whether I am real or not is better supported?”_

_Essek doesn’t point out that Caleb has been able to touch Essek’s shoulders since he arrived. That he can feel Caleb’s touch on his chin at this very moment. He nods, unable to bring himself to refuse what is so freely offered, ashamed at how badly he wants another chance._

_Caleb tips up his chin. Essek’s eyes flutter shut._

_He’s half expecting Caleb to be harsh, to pay him back for the furious kiss from before. What he receives is much worse - a press of lips as soft and warm as the benediction of the sun._ _Fi_ _ngertips paint delicate trails of heat along his jaw, moving to cradle the side of his face with a reverence Essek has never experienced before. He trembles beneath it._

_“Mmn. How did that feel?” Caleb murmurs as he pulls away a moment later, still close enough to share breath._

_“Like everything I want,” Essek replies thickly. “Like everything I shouldn’t want.”_

He wakes with wetness on his eyelashes and cheeks, and a memory of Caleb thumbing it away.

* * *

Essek sleeps the next night. And the next. Caleb does not appear. Essek paces in his study - on foot, because pacing isn't satisfying when he floats. Why would Caleb disappear again? Is he alright in Eiselcross? Has he been hurt or wounded? Has Essek merely had a good dream, and convinced himself it is more than that? These questions are not helpful in passing the time. Depending on his mood, he can convince himself that any one of them is true.

Finally, after nearly a week of sleeping and dreaming, there Caleb is, walking into one of Essek’s hypothetical dunamancy experiments like he owns the place.

_“If you are working in your dreams as well as when you are awake, do you ever get any rest, do you think?” Caleb asks him, leaning against Essek’s desk and crossing his arms. His Kryn-style attire is deeply flattering in dark shades of plum. His hair looks like fire in contrast._

_“I think that a mind may have many forms of respite,” Essek returns, drinking in the sight of him. “This is one of mine.”_

_“It is a brilliant design,” Caleb acknowledges, examining equations and symbols that hover in the air. “Do you remember these perfectly when you are awake again?”_

_“Often, though not always,” Essek admits. “My memory is not quite as precise as yours. But I am very confident that if I have made the connections once, I can do it again. I need only begin with the same puzzle pieces.”_

_“Remarkable,” Caleb says._

_Essek, emboldened by their last meeting, approaches him, stopping just short of making contact. With the way Caleb is leaning on the desk, they are nearly of an equal height._

_“Hallo,” Caleb blinks at him, bemused. Day-sky eyes. Perfect._

_“Hello,” Essek says. Then, with a shy smile, he takes Caleb’s hand. Stops. Frowns at where their skin is touching. The static-nothing feeling is back. “Caleb?” He looks up uncertainly._

_“Is something wrong?” Caleb asks him, unperturbed. “You seem upset.”_

_“I don’t understand,” Essek replies, panic rising. “Why--” He presses his palm to Caleb’s chest, gently but firmly, as though feeling for a heartbeat._

_There is a faint impression of warmth, and then Caleb fades to nothingness under his touch._

_He is alone._

* * *

Essek decides the best course of action is to avoid all contact with Caleb in his dreams.

He's used to being hungry for knowledge. But in this case, his cowardice is stronger than his appetite for the truth. He can hear his mother’s voice creeping unbidden into his ear: _Dreams are a chaotic disturbance. There is no knowing which life produced the dreaming, or what its meaning is. It increases the likelihood of typhros. Of madness._

Perhaps Essek only needs one life to begin going mad. Perhaps he is a prodigy in this way, too.

His mother would surely derive some satisfaction from knowing that Essek is doubting himself about this. And as much as Essek would like to laugh and confidently proclaim he knows what his dreams are made of, that he knows what he has experienced, he finds it harder and harder to parse the recent events with Caleb. Does he believe that he met the real Caleb Widogast in his dreams? What proof does he have? A memory? A clear memory, to be sure, but it’s easy to convince himself that his ability to forge dreamscape features is merely evolving.

That he is getting better at turning his longing into substance.

That briefly, he imagined a new Caleb, one who would stay put when Essek reached for him. 

One who would reach for him in return.

One who would love him.

In desperate frustration, Essek reads and re-reads the meager texts he’s collected on dreaming, throws them aside, then summons them back to be smoothed over and read again. He struggles to trance, and so he sleeps and dreams fitfully.

* * *

Essek is sitting at the Bright Queen’s right hand in court when a clerk informs them that the Mighty Nein have arrived unexpectedly in the Lucid Bastion’s teleportation circle. _Is there any other way for them to arrive?_ Essek wonders, even as his stomach swoops unpleasantly. After wishing to see them for so long, suddenly he doesn’t feel ready for it. He nearly misses it when the clerk continues saying that the Mighty Nein are seeking an audience with the Bright Queen at this very moment. 

The Bright Queen nods her assent. Essek begins to sweat. By the time the doors to the great hall are being opened, he’s just about ready to vibrate out of his skin. He hasn’t been this nervous since the week before the peace talks.

And there they all are: the Mighty Nein, dressed in thick winter garments and tracking in puddles of melting snow. Before the doors close, Essek can see Bastion staff beyond hurrying to mop the floor in the hallway beyond. Genuine amusement pushes its way through his anxiety before he ruthlessly forces it back down, clinging to the cool, polite smile he so often wears like a shield. He’ll need his court composure for this.

Automatically, he scans the group. They look weary but unhurt. Caduceus and Yasha are tall sentinels at the rear. Veth and Jester walk in the front, flanked by Beau, Fjord, and… Caleb. Like the rest, he’s in heavy winter furs, with a ridiculously thick scarf wrapped at least three times around his neck and the lower half of his face. His red hair stands out against the pale grey and white of the materials. He’s too far away still for Essek to make out details, but he looks healthy and whole. He seems to feel Essek’s eyes on him, too, because he tilts his head to look back. 

Essek’s heart rate picks up and he shies away from making eye contact. Ever the coward.

“Mighty Nein, Friends of the Dynasty,” The Bright Queen greets, providing Essek a welcome distraction, “I bid you welcome to our halls once again.”

“Hello again, and thank you, your Majesty,” Veth speaks up, stepping forward. After all this time, Essek still finds himself surprised at how the halfling - formerly goblin - is so often a speaker for the Nein with the Bright Queen. Her formalities are a little overdone at times, or they bleed into crass irreverence, but she doesn’t seem intimidated by power. Essek likes that. “We return bearing a gift! From far away, in the icy realms of _Eiselcross!_ ”

The Bright Queen straightens in her chair, her attention sharpening and honing in on Veth. “The last gift your group brought me was great indeed,” she replies, fingers curling tight over the arms of her throne as she leans forward, eyes hungry. “Tell me, what have you brought for the glory of the Dynasty?”

“It’s not a beacon!” Veth backtracks hastily, waving her hands. “Not a beacon. Uh, sorry if we set expectations a little high there.”

The Bright Queen sits back, disappointment flickering over her features.

“But we think this will be of great interest to you, _as well!_ ” Veth continues on, then makes a small hand motion at Jester. Jester, transfixed by the Bright Queen’s radiance, does not respond. Veth repeats the motion, muttering out of the corner of her mouth, “Jess- Jester, come on. The thingy.”

“Oh! Right!” Jester startles and goes for her pink haversack. She sinks her whole arm into it and roots around, before producing… a stone tablet. It’s large - the size of grand books of lore in the Marble Tomes. Essek can see holding it is a challenge even for Jester’s considerable strength. “Here it is,” Jester says, voice strained with effort. “It’s a _lee-tle_ heavy, so I think I better put it down, okay?” She plunks the tablet onto the ground at her feet. The sound of stone on stone echoes throughout the hall. “ _OOF_ that thing is heavy. Oh boy.” Jester puts her hands on her hips, winded.

“What is this?” the Bright Queen prompts in clipped tones, peering at it with both suspicion and interest.

“A _sacred text_ from the depths of the a _ncient arcane city_ of _Aeor_ ,” Veth proclaims impressively.

“It mentions the, um, the Luxon,” Jester adds, still puffing for breath. “We thought-- you might like it!” She sends the Bright Queen a beaming grin. “Your dress is really pretty today, you know?”

The Bright Queen ignores the compliment. She has attention only for the mention of the Luxon. “What does this tablet say, precisely? What reason do you have to think it is true and sacred?”

As one, Veth and Jester point at Beau.

“Uh!” Beau stutters, put on the spot. “Yeah, I, uh, translated some of it. Uh. Your Majesty. I’m a little rusty on my old-school Undercommon, but I definitely got the impression that there was some real lore there. It mentions consecution - not by name, but the whole many-lives-in-one-soul thing, and some stuff about how it works, and, yeah. Might be of interest. I’m sure your, uh, respected libraries and scholars are better equipped than we are to figure out whether that’s all legit, or not. But we found it in the ruins of, like, the _actual_ city of Aeor, you know, not the wastes that have been picked over a lot. Best I can tell, it looks legit.” She gives an awkward grin, and a double thumbs-up.

The Bright Queen narrows her eyes, considering. “And you found the fallen city, truly? How did this artifact come into your hands? Tell me.”

The group launches into a wild tale about caverns deep below the icy tundra of Eiselcross, deadly beasts, and near escapes. If they are speaking the truth, this tablet comes from a chamber that had remained untouched since the original crash of the floating city. 

At last, the Bright Queen waves her hand for silence.

The room collectively holds its breath. 

Essek glances at Caleb, and finds those day-blue eyes are looking right at him. His heart skips a beat and he hurriedly lets his gaze slide back to the Bright Queen. It’s a good think he does, too, because she has just turned to him with a silent question, her chin lifting.

 _Do you vouch for them still?_ Her eyes ask.

Essek nods once.

She turns back to consider the tablet.

“Take it to the Tomes,” she announces at last, waving for attendants to fetch it. “I want to know everything it contains. Test it thoroughly to determine its origin.”

The room exhales. Quiet mutters break out among the gathered courtiers.

As the heavy tablet is carried away, Essek risks another look at Caleb. He’s not looking back this time, thankfully, and Essek can draw in all the details he’s missed most, and details that have changed. His nose and cheeks are reddened by frostbite. He’s pulled his ridiculous scarf down, and Essek can see his beard has grown in a bit, and quite handsomely too. No doubt it was a choice made for the icy weather of the north. Essek can’t help but wonder… _would his kisses be raspy and prickly? Or would they still be soft? What would such a thing feel like, here in reality? Would he--_

“--nk you for this gift,” the Bright Queen is saying. “I desire to learn more of your expedition into Aeor in great detail, as it is relevant to the Dynasty’s interests. You will return to make such a report before your departure to further travels. Was there anything else you wished to bring to my attention?”

“Umm… Nope!” Jester chirps, after making a show of thinking about it. “That’s all! But it’s super great to see you, your Brightness.”

This answer makes Essek immediately suspicious. Why have the Nein brought a gift to the Bright Queen, with no boon to ask in return? He knows how these things work. It’s foolish to give away such a powerful game piece when it might be needed later. He’ll need to make a visit and ask them for the whole story. More than fulfilling his own personal desires, he needs to know what they’re up to.

There are some closing formalities. Mighty Nein all bow their thanks to the Bright Queen. Jester catches Essek’s eye and gives him a little wave as they go, which reassures him he is still welcome.

He waits until the great doors close behind the Nein before he turns to the Bright Queen. “With your leave, Bright One, I will accompany the Mighty Nein to their home. It may be valuable to learn more of their travels in a less, ah, formal setting, to glean more about this artifact they have given us.”

The Bright Queen’s stare is uncomfortable to bear at the best of times. Her irises are the palest, sharpest silver, and while her countenance can be warm, there is something slightly… off, sometimes. Something chaotic. It emerges when she talks of the war, or the Luxon. _I wonder, Leylas Kryn, do you ever take the risk of dreaming?_ Essek thinks, repressing a shudder. _I hope not._

“Yes, do this,” she commands after a moment. “Use the goodwill you have established. If there are other holy artifacts of the Luxon buried in Eiselcross, we must be the first to know where they are, and how to reach them. Report back to me.”

Essek nods deferentially. His pace as he leaves the chamber is unhurried, though his insides are squirming with nerves again. He hasn’t seen the Mighty Nein for long weeks now, and all worries - old and new - are surging to the forefront of his mind.

It’s easy to catch up with the Nein using a shortcut through the Bastion halls. He emerges from a side door just as they are about to step out into the city.

“Hello, friends,” he greets, floating over to them. He considers dropping his graviturgy cantrip, but without it his robes will look overly-long, an indignity he should not display while still inside the Bastion. He remains floating as he enjoys a cacophony of replies. It is truly delicious to hear them all greet him warmly.

“Hey, Essek.” - “Hello!” - “We saw you but didn’t want to interrupt you at work, you know!” - “Hello.” - “Been a while.” - “Good to see you again, friend.”

The last is Caleb, but Essek is saved from having to be brave enough to look at him by Jester flinging her arms around him. He will never get tired of Jester’s hugs, he thinks. It still feels a bit alien, being hugged, but he revels in how earnest Jester’s are, and how freely given. He can’t return the hug as his arms are pinned to his sides, but he leans just slightly into it.

“It is good to see you all. I, ah, did not know you were coming,” he says when she releases him, his voice lilting slightly upward to make it _almost_ a question.

“Oh yeah! The magic is CRAZY up there,” Jester replies. “You got the message we sent you the first time a few weeks ago, right? Like, sort of? I heard a few words back at the time but it was really hard to hear them.”

“Yes, I did receive a message, though I also heard very little of it on my end.” Essek’s eyes sweep over the group, though he rushes past Caleb like the coward he is. “I hope there was not any trouble needing my assistance?” 

“No!” Jester replies. “It was about _you_ _,_ actually, Essek -- Caleb said it had been a while since we checked in, and you know, it really has been! And so I tried. But you know, it didn’t work. _Are_ you okay though?”

She squints at him.

“I am fine, thank you,” he smiles mildly in return. A group of Aurora Watch travel around them in the entryway, and Essek takes a breath. “Ah, perhaps I might… invite you to dine with me this evening? I imagine you are all very tired. It would please me to provide a meal and some home comforts for you.” 

“Do you cook?” Beau asks incredulously.

“Ah, no,” Essek admits. “But I know several excellent chefs who can provide whatever we require. It will be ready when you arrive.”

There’s a moment where the Nein all trade glances, rapidly discussing with mostly just their expressions.

“Yeah, okay,” Veth agrees on everyone’s behalf, once they are done. “We’ll come hang out after we’ve had a nap.”

“Can we bring anything to contribute?”

Caleb. 

Damn it all, Essek is going to have to look at him to answer. 

Steeling himself, he does, and those piercing blue eyes immediately shoot right through his brain and scramble his thoughts. He stumbles over his simple reply. “I, ah, of-- no, ah, only… only yourselves. I will take care of everything.” 

_Sunlight on his lips, achingly gentle--_

“You okay there Essek?” Beau is halfway between concerned and smirking.

“I'm fine,” Essek repeats, shaking himself and seizing on the opportunity to address her instead. “This evening, then? Perhaps at seven, to give you time to rest yourselves?”

There are general murmurs of assent in the group.

“Very well,” Essek nods perfunctorily. “I will leave you to your business and begin preparations. See you soon.”

He’s not fleeing, he tells himself as he floats quickly away. There is simply nothing more to be said for the moment. And he’s chosen a round-about route to his home so he can pass by a restaurant that will provide food later, not because he’s avoiding walking with the Mighty Nein back to their shared neighborhood. 

An hour later the catering is attended to, and he’s in his study, pacing back and forth like a caged moorbounder. Strangely, he also feels a strong desire to sleep. Just a quick nap, just a short dream. Just a little time in an environment he can (mostly) control. A bubble of oblivion to seal himself into, protected from expectations and consequences and anything and everything. _Dreams are a chaotic disturbance--_

No. He will not sleep. He can’t risk slipping too far under, oversleeping, and being caught off-guard when the Nein arrive.

Instead he organizes his entire lab, top to bottom. Then he changes into clothes that will look flattering no matter if he is walking or floating. When he’s done, his mind still itches for something to do, anything to escape his thoughts. He can’t help but imagine all the ways speaking with Caleb could go disastrously: that the Caleb in his dreams has only ever been his imagination, or that he did in fact meet and kiss a real Caleb, but that he no longer feels the same way, leaving Essek twice embarrassed...

In a fit of petulance, Essek hurls a bottle of ink at the wall. It shatters. The sound and the splatter of ink is deeply satisfying for a few seconds, before frustration bleeds in again.

“You are a mess, Thelyss,” he mutters to himself. He scrubs his hands down his face, and gets to work cleaning up the broken glass. A quick prestidigitation clears away the ink. The shards float to a waste bin.

There is less than an hour remaining before the Mighty Nein are due to arrive. Essek decides to attempt a trance - not for sustained rest, but just for meditation. Like always, he drifts in and out of the state with varying success, but the attempt at practiced blankness, letting thoughts emerge and pour out of his mind like water from a pitcher, is some small comfort. 

_“Hallo, Essek, we are here at your front gate. Do you mind if we come in?”_ Caleb’s voice sounds right next to Essek’s ear, as though he is sitting beside him.

Essek jumps in surprise, and hopes his sudden intake of breath isn’t caught in the reply that Caleb will hear. “Ah! Caleb, yes-- I will be there shortly.” 

He greets the Nein at the gate and walks them inside. He notes that they all look refreshed, if still tired and a little frostbitten. Their attire is a hodgepodge of new and old - some garments that likely laid beneath their winter coats, and some much older in Empire styles. None of it is of the Dynasty, for which Essek feels a small pang. He likes it when the Nein look like they belong in Rosohna, however artificial the notion might be. He wonders if the choice not to wear Kryn style is intentional.

They settle into the main sitting room. Essek has already arranged a large dining table there and laid out food. The Mighty Nein are not shy about digging in.

“Oh my god this is so good,” Beau sighs as she takes bites of hearty stew.

“Yes, we forgive you for everything,” Veth adds, taking second helpings already.

Fjord raises his mug of ale in a toast to Essek, saying nothing in favor of chewing. Yasha also says nothing, but her tiny smile and the growing pile of discarded spider leg shells on her plate is compliment enough. Caduceus is serving himself sauced vegetables with an expression of pure contentment.

“I am sorry I could not provide the Tower more often while we were there--” Caleb says to the group, chagrined.

“Nope, shut up, this isn’t about that,” Beau interrupts, holding up a finger. “It was too risky with the magic distortions and we all agreed. This is about good food in front of us right now.” She takes another bite and sighs contentedly, wrapping her whole arm around the bowl.

Essek almost asks about this Tower - another spell, perhaps one Caleb has modified? - before he remembers it’s in his best interest not to engage. Instead, he asks the group at large about their journey in the north. He still feels half out of his skin, unsure where he stands, unsure of himself.

Caleb seems to have noticed that Essek is avoiding looking at him. The wizard doubles his attempts to engage, asking about Essek’s work, his studies, his plans for the future. Essek leans heavily on his ingrained court habits to stay even and gracious and suitably vague. He dispenses cool, confident smiles and graceful, flippant hand gestures, like he did with the Mighty Nein in the early days. Caleb begins to frown slightly the longer these empty conversations go. 

Essek determinedly steers the conversation back to the tablet. He needs to know what the Nein are holding back.

“Tell me, what did you find the tablet to contain?” he asks. “Why was it so important to transport such a heavy relic back to the Dynasty?”

The Mighty Nein exchange looks. It’s fascinating how good they are in communicating without words, and also amusing how dreadfully obvious it is.

Finally, it is Beau who speaks.

“It says some stuff about consecution, like we said,” she says slowly. “But also…” she trails off, then swivels to Fjord. “Hey, quick check?”

The Star Razor makes a short appearance. Fjord looks around the room, and shrugs.

Beau leans on her elbows on the table, eyes intent on Essek’s. “It says some stuff about consecution. Specifically, from what I can tell, that it only works on _the willing_.” She breaks into a conspiratorial grin. “Good, right? We think it might be a way to get the Bright Queen to curb some of that zealotry shit, trying to convert people by force. She’s a divine leader, so like, the best way to get her to change is for it to come from a holy source she’s most willing to listen to, right? And the best part? It’s all authentic. The story we told about finding it is a hundred percent true.” 

Essek is frozen on the spot. He is only too aware that consecution can fail, though he wasn’t aware it was systemic. Perhaps he is not special after all. But… could the tablet expose him to the court? What if the Bright Queen becomes obsessed with testing new consecutions? 

It seems he’s stayed quiet a moment too long, because Beau connects the dots. 

“...But you already knew that, didn’t you?” she asks Essek slowly. Damn her. “You never bought into the religious angle, you told us.” 

Jester gasps. “Oh my god Essek, did they consecute you against your will?”

Is there any point in lying? A lie within a lie becomes weaker, and Essek is so, so tired. He is tired of his armor being peeled away. He is tired of feeling vulnerable.

“I consented to the ritual,” Essek says, and knows they will hear what he’s _not_ saying.

“But it didn’t take,” Beau concludes.

Essek looks away.

“Shit,” Beau breathes. “That’s like, serious right? Does anyone know?”

“I feel like I am handing a dagger to you by saying this, but no, it is not known,” Essek says, stress warring with exhaustion in his chest. “And I would appreciate it if it was kept that way. The repercussions would not be... kind. And such a discovery might lead to further doubts of my trustworthiness.”

“Of _course_ we wouldn’t tell anyone!” Jester, bless her, is the first to exclaim. “We wouldn’t do that to you!”

“I suspect he is at greater risk already, just by us handing over the tablet,” Caleb surmises. He is still looking directly at Essek, trying to catch his eye. “And I am not entirely certain he believes we wouldn’t expose him.” He leans on his elbows, staring intently despite Essek’s refusal to look back. “Essek, I feel it necessary to remind you that we already know about the beacons. If we wanted to hurt you, that would be all the knowledge required. But we do _not_ want to hurt you. I hope you will believe it.”

“I mean, if you betray us, all bets are off,” Beau adds, “But I don’t think you’d blame us for that. So yeah. So far so good.”

Essek feels very small.

Jester takes his hand, and Essek is reminded sharply of his confession in Nicodranas. “I don’t care if you aren’t consecuted,” she tells him solemnly. “If you die, we can just bring you back to life, as the original you! I can do that, and so can Caduceus.”

“It is another lie that I told you,” Essek replies. “I am sorry.” He’s not sorry he kept it to himself in the beginning, but it is another small betrayal against them. And for that, he has regret.

“I think we can definitely accept your apology on this one,” Beau says, to his surprise. “Consecution is like, a big deal to your Den, right? That’s part of why you’ve stayed quiet about it not working?”

That’s not the whole reason, but it’s close enough. Essek nods.

“Yeah, fuck ‘em,” Beau says immediately. “Family expectations blow.”

There are nods and murmurs of agreement from the group, and one side of Essek’s mouth lifts in an incredulous smile. They don’t care. They actually don’t. What has he done to deserve such friends?

A memory of a dream filters into his mind - Caleb’s voice, which he still doesn’t know was real or imagined: _‘I often feel that I do not deserve the friends I found in the Mighty Nein. But they are my friends, regardless.’_

Essek swallows hard. His eyes find the definitely-real Caleb across the table, and for the first time that night, he doesn’t shy away. They share a long moment, just looking at each other. Caleb’s face is full of compassion, and of _knowing_ _,_ but Essek still cannot be sure if it is for the reasons that would mean the most. And how could he even begin to ask such a question? _Yes, hello, I have been dreaming about you..._

Caleb must see some of the turmoil in Essek’s face, because he clears his throat and looks around at the group. “I think we are all in agreement that we do not care whether you are consecuted or not, my friend. It is not so harmful that you did not tell us either, I think, though I am glad you can tell us now. Let that be the end of it.”

Essek sighs, his shoulders slumping as he attempts to release the tension that has been building there. “Thank you.”

“Now, with that settled, I actually have a small request, of an academic nature,” Caleb continues, leaning on his elbows and looking at Essek intently again. “Would you be willing to show me the arcanograph on your tower roof? I am fascinated by it.”

“Of course,” Essek agrees.

“How about now? If you are finished eating,” Caleb says, glancing at the plate Essek has been picking at like a bird for the last thirty minutes.

“I, ah- alright, yes,” Essek says, and stands.

“Ooh, time for a tour? I’m in,” Beau pipes up, an edge of glee in her expression that bodes for trouble.

However, in an unusual turn from the past, Caleb gently shuts her down. “I would actually like a moment to talk to our friend in private, if you don’t mind. As you know, we have quite a lot in common. Parallels in our history, which I think we might like to chat about. Don’t worry. We will not be long.”

Beau looks put-out, but crosses her arms and grins anyway. “Fine! Be safe, kids.”

Caleb makes what Essek thinks is a rude gesture at Beau over his shoulder as he follows.

Essek’s mind is racing faster with every step they take up the stairs. The safest bet is, of course, to assume his dreams are only dreams. Caleb is likely going to give him another compassionate speech about redemption and forgiveness, based on his own murky past with the Scourgers and the Cerberus Assembly. Essek will show him the arcanograph and enjoy the way Caleb’s eyes light up when he’s excited about something. 

And then they will return to the group.

Yes, that’s all.

Caleb is mostly silent as they cross a walkway, ascend more stairs, another walkway, and yet more stairs, except to make the occasional comment about the architecture or the purpose of the rooms. Essek is a little winded by the time they reach the top of the tallest tower where the arcanograph is situated. He’s used to floating this distance.

“Here-- we are,” Essek says as the cool, night air hits the perspiration on his brow. The arcanograph whirrs and clicks and shines. 

Caleb emerges next to him. 

There is a second of silence in the moonlight where Essek is petrified. In a panic, he starts talking before Caleb can speak first. “This arcanograph is of my-- my own design, based on several such models I have seen or heard of from the greatest arcane establishments across Exandria. Its primary foci are determined by--” 

“Essek,” Caleb interrupts him gently, giving Essek a sharp sense of déjà-vu. “Please, let me put your mind at ease.”

He rummages in his pockets, and Essek’s heart leaps into his throat. But all Caleb produces is a folded piece of paper. It is slightly crumpled from travel. He unfolds it and hands it to Essek.

Essek looks down at it. The paper in his hands is covered in drawings of dicks. They are very skillfully rendered in blue, pink, and purple ink, in a variety of sizes. There is also what looks like a hydra, except the many heads of the hydra are dicks. Essek stares at it, uncomprehending.

“Ah, _scheiße_ _,_ that is the wrong side!” Caleb reaches out and hurriedly flips the page over before handing it back.

The other side is a blue-inked sketch of what is unmistakably the Moonweaver amulet. 

Essek’s mind goes blank.

“We lost the amulet itself - we had to trade it, unfortunately, long story,” Caleb rambles. “But I knew you would prefer to see it in some kind of way. Jester drew this, before we handed it away. It is the best I can do.”

The paper crinkles under Essek’s tense hands. The drawing is _exactly_ what Essek remembers from his dream a few weeks prior - the moon strung like a bow, the studded gemstones, the intricate curls of the design. There is no denying it. His sleeping world is crashing into his waking reality. He is standing on the precipice of something new and terrifying.

As fast as his mind is able, he makes quick checks to make _absolutely sure_ that he hasn’t slipped into a dream. All the details around him are crisp and clear. He cannot will objects into existence by thinking about them. He cannot collapse the dream. 

This is real.

The look on Caleb’s face is earnest and hopeful, but it fades as the silence stretches longer. “If your feelings have changed--”

“No,” Essek interrupts him automatically, heart in his throat. He licks his lips and swallows. “You were there in both of those dreams,” he says, hungry for the confirmation out loud.

“I was,” Caleb says.

“And you-- you… care, for me.”

“I do.”

“Even knowing who I am, _what_ I am, what I’ve done--”

“Even then.”

A breeze sweeps over them, making Essek shiver. “You kissed me,” he finishes, barely a whisper. 

“I did.” Caleb gives him a small, hesitant smile. For all of the wizard’s composure till now, Essek finds it comforting that Caleb may be just as nervous as he is. 

The moment hangs between them. Essek knows he could backtrack now, and step away from the edge - Caleb would let him, he thinks. Caleb is determined but not demanding. Essek could refuse without damaging his standing with the Mighty Nein. He could escape further discussion of their private moments in his dreams. But… the more he thinks about it, the more he doesn’t want to. 

He _believes_ Caleb. He shouldn’t, knowing what Caleb was trained to become and the skills that came with it. He shouldn’t, knowing that it is safer not to trust anyone, ever. But he does. Even if he still doesn’t fully understand it.

For all Essek’s distaste for religion, it appears he has found faith in something after all.

He sucks in a breath, and takes the plunge. 

He straightens up and smooths his expression into a slight smile and barely-hooded eyes - a combination he knows is quite fetching on him - and looks down at the drawing in his hands. After a second of faux-contemplation, he speaks in a light, casual tone. 

“You know, this drawing… it’s very, ah, accurate, to what I remember. And your words match the events as well. But I think I will require something a little more… demonstrative, as proof. If you don’t mind.” He elegantly lifts his chin, drops his gaze pointedly at Caleb’s mouth, then back up to meet those day-blue eyes with smug intent.

Caleb’s pensive expression cracks into a relieved grin. “Ja, I can do that.” 

He closes the distance between them, and Essek eagerly meets him halfway. 

It turns out Caleb’s new beard is both prickly _and_ soft, somehow. His mouth is warm, his lips a bit chapped from the harsh north. Essek can feel him smiling into the kiss, and can’t help smiling back. The paper - dropped so that Essek can get his hands in Caleb’s hair - sails away on the night breeze. Essek’s senses are full of _Caleb_ _._ He is falling and flying at the same time. He doesn’t know yet what the two of them will become, but he can’t wait to find out. 

It is so much better than dreaming.

**Author's Note:**

> _When a dream is born in you  
>  With a sudden clamorous pain,  
> When you know the dream is true  
> And lovely, with no flaw nor stain,  
> O then, be careful, or with sudden clutch  
> You'll hurt the delicate thing you prize so much.  
>   
> Dreams are like a bird that mocks,  
> Flirting the feathers of his tail.  
> When you seize at the salt-box,  
> Over the hedge you'll see him sail.  
> Old birds are neither caught with salt nor chaff:  
> They watch you from the apple bough and laugh.  
>   
> Poet, never chase the dream.  
> Laugh yourself, and turn away.  
> Mask your hunger; let it seem  
> Small matter if he come or stay;  
> But when he nestles in your hand at last,  
> Close up your fingers tight and hold him fast.  
>   
> -Robert Graves, Fairies and Fusiliers (1917), “A Pinch of Salt”._
> 
> I do more yelling about Critical Role and sometimes post art on tumblr - come say hi! I'm [ariadne-mouse](https://ariadne-mouse.tumblr.com/).


End file.
